


give me back my wings you wingless thing

by brothebro



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Magic, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of past genocide, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Name stealing, No Beta, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Post canon, Some Humor, Transformation, deus ex cirilla, will get beta later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29517144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothebro/pseuds/brothebro
Summary: Geralt visits Oxenfurt in time for the bardic festival. He expects to find his Jaskier waiting for him, song and laughter ready at his lips but instead, he finds him covered in a duvet, old and new blood crusted on it, and tears staining the air. There's something terribly wrong with his bard and they have to find out what it is, how to stop it, before Geralt loses him for good.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 173
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	give me back my wings you wingless thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bamf_babe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bamf_babe/gifts).



> Read the tags ;)  
> I'm not joking when I say this has gore in it (it's mainly in the first half of the fic)
> 
> Written for the Geraskier Reverse Big Bang event!

[ ](https://ibb.co/LYH2jgm)

* * *

The summer sun casts its rays on the cobblestone buildings and snaking paved roads of the city of Arts, bringing out the colourful banners that decorate its plazas and the flower garlands and wreaths that cover every inch of the two-story buildings. Oxenfurt, the gem of Pontar herself, livelier than ever, anticipates the annual bardic competition. 

Travellers from all across the Continent bustle about; Zerrikaneans wearing long colourful patterned dresses, Nazairi nobles with their intricate scarves and head-wear, Povissi scholars unused to the heat and humidity of the mid-south opting for light shifts and calf height pantaloons. 

And there among the crowd, a witcher dressed in black, two intimidating swords strapped on his back, makes his way through narrow streets, his pace swift and footing steady. 

Geralt didn’t know what to expect when Jaskier invited him to watch him participate in this year’s bardic competition. He had no qualms that a lot of people would be interested in such an event; the Continent lacking as it was in any sort of entertainment. And what more entertaining than a bunch of cockerels posing as bards, snide ready at their tongues, competing over the title of Master of the Musical Arts. 

The matter stands: Geralt had expected a big number of drama lovers to gather for the biggest display of pettiness in the world, but he did not expect the roads to become rivers with the abundance of people. 

The noise of the endless chatter of the crowd is grating on his sensitive ears, though this time he welcomes it rather than avoids it, as in the first time in a long time no one really pays any attention to him while he navigates through the snaking paths leading to Jaskier’s apartment. 

It’s nice, blending in with the crowd; anonymity is such a rare thing these days due to his friend’s vigorous attempts to clear his unfortunate, debatable as to if he deserves it, reputation as the Butcher of Blaviken. 

Without much trouble, Geralt makes it to the picturesque cobblestone building in which Jaskier’s apartment is situated. 

A middle-aged man opens the door for him, his whiskey gaze scanning the witcher from head to toe. He nods curtly and points him to the narrow steep wooden stairs, and towards the second floor. 

“He’s ill,” the man says in a gruff disinterested voice before he drags his feet to the door to the left of the small foyer. 

Geralt knits his eyebrows together in worry and wastes no time scaling the staircase, each step creaking dangerously under his weight. 

An intricately painted plaque spelling “Julian Alfred Pankratz, University alumni” little buttercup flowers decorating the dots above the  _ i’s,  _ denotes the poet’s residence. 

The witcher knocks once on the thick oaken wood of the door and hears the rumble of sheets crinkling and duvets being thrown over one’s shoulder. 

“I’m sleeping,” comes the familiar tenor of his long-time friend -that doesn’t sound strained by illness at all- from behind the door. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt knocks again. 

Nigh silent hisses and curses echo from the apartment, the soft sound of Jaskier’s footfalls and his laboured breathing. The pungent odour of dried blood intermingles with that of a fresh wound and Geralt worries his friend and secret love of near forty years finally caught an ailment as many humans his age do (even though time seems to has stilled as far as the bard’s outward appearance is concerned). The witcher’s stomach clenches with fear that the time has come to mourn Jaskier. 

“Jaskier, open the door,” he urges. He has to see for himself the state the bard is in. He has to see and make a choice; bring him to their mutual sorceress friends, Triss and Yennefer, to heal him proper. 

“Go away Geralt,” Jaskier says in a stable voice his breathing hitching ever so slightly towards the end, “I’m fine, truly. I just need to sleep this off.”

“You’re not  _ fine  _ Jaskier,” the witcher growls and sniffs the air discreetly again;  _ blood, ooze and tears _ .

“Oh, pish-posh Geralt. The old man downstairs is exaggerating. And stop sniffing the air like a hound, please. I can hear you doing it as we speak! That blood is but a scratch. Cut myself cooking if you’ll believe it.” 

“Bullshit. If you don’t open the door this instance, know that oak is severely expensive to replace.” 

“The smell comes Valdo Marx’s –  _ fuuuuck it hurts _ \- slit throat,” Jaskier lies terribly. It makes Geralt wonder why the bard is so fucking stubborn. 

“Valdo died of a heart attack three years ago. You made me attend the funeral. You were also inconsolable and crying for two whole months, might I remind you,” Geralt huffs irritated and slightly concerned for Jaskier’s state of mind. Surely, the bard can’t be losing his marbles so soon. “Now step away, lest you want to hurt yourself further.” Geralt rolls his shoulder positioning himself to break the door off its hinges. 

The sound of a key clicking the pins of the lock in place echoes deafening in the small space between the apartment and the stairs, and the witcher calms himself, inhaling deeply the musty air as he readies himself for whatever disaster has occurred in Jaskier’s residence. 

The door creaks open and a yelp comes from the bard who leaps on his bed before Geralt has a chance to see him, hiding beneath a crusty, bloody, once dust-rose duvet. 

“Jaskier, please,” Geralt begs, “I want to help you.”

A whimper followed by a sob escapes the poet’s lips, before he shifts beneath the covers, his form a shapeless lump. “Promise you won’t be mad?”

The question catches the witcher by surprise, “Why would I be mad, Jaskier?”

“Promise me, you won’t be mad,” Jaskier reiterates.

“Promise.”

The bard peeks his head under the covers, blue eyes puffy from crying meet Geralt’s yellow. His lip trembles with fear and he chews on it as he always does when he wants to hide something. Geralt watches him patiently, never once making a move afraid to scare the bard further. 

Soon, Jaskier fumbles with the duvet, hands nervous and uncertain, slowly crawling out of the blanket cave. The witcher’s breath hitches as his gaze lands on Jaskier’s once beige chemise, now splotched with angry red. It- He stinks of coagulated blood and a strange sourness that Geralt places as the beginnings of an infection.

“Jaskier,” the witcher says, his brows furrowed with worry and his usually slow heart hammering against his ribcage. 

“You’re angry,” the bard says, eyes downcast hands fidgeting with the seams of his chemise, pulling at the offending piece of cloth, trying to cast it away. 

The witcher shakes his head, “Worried, not angry,” he reaches a tentative hand towards his best friend -- his secret love -- “Can I see?” he asks, his voice small and fragile, horrified to find out what’s beneath the chemise. 

Jaskier nods and Geralt approaches slowly, carefully, lifting the duvet from the bard’s body, tossing it to the side of the twin bed that takes the most space in Jaskier’s small apartment. 

His gaze stays fixed on the bard’s curled form, scanning him for damage. There are two protrusions on Jaskier’s back tenting his ruined garment, and Geralt leans closer to inspect the strange lumps, hands reaching to undress his friend when he sees it: a mangled bloodied dark grey or purple feather --he can’t be sure, caked in crusting blood as it is. 

Curious, Geralt takes it to his hand and as his fingers brush over the long thin feather his medallion vibrates and hums, chaos filling the air. 

Fuck. 

If it’s what he thinks it is he has to take Jaskier to a mage soon. But first, he has to make sure. First, he needs to confirm that his bard won’t succumb to his injuries. So, he takes a dagger from his thigh holster and rips Jaskier’s chemise in two over his back in one careful move. 

“Geralt, what are you doing?” Jaskier whimpers but doesn’t move from his spot. 

Geralt’s stomach twists as his eyes take in the extent of the damage upon the poet’s back. Two long, thick, symmetrical gashes start just below Jaskier’s shoulder blades, still oozing dark red blood, stretched skin wrapping around some sort of pointy bone on the right one. The left one is a horrifying shade of purple and red skin broken through, bone wrapped in ripped muscles, mangled and broken as if someone tried to saw it off. And there, right above the bone, tiny dark feathers spout from the skin. 

“Fuck, Jaskier,” the witcher breathes, bile rising to his tongue and hands hovering above the bloody horror that is the bard’s back. 

“It’s not  _ that  _ bad.”

“It’s more than bad,” Geralt croaks, his nose scrunching in a mix of disgust and terror, “I need to take you to a healer. Now.”

“No.”

“ _ No? _ You’re going to bloody die on me if  _ this  _ continues!” 

Jaskier scoffs, moving to sit on his knees, “The healer won’t help, Geralt. The healer-” tears well up in Jaskier’s eyes, “-the healer told me to sow them off. And I tried,” his voice is barely a whisper at the end.

The words catch on Geralt’s throat, constricting it painfully. He chokes a hum. What kind of bastard tries to solve, what’s obviously some sort of- It’s a transformation, Geralt realises. A transformation to something other, non-human. 

It must be a curse. 

“We need to go to Yennefer and Triss’s,” Geralt says, voice even and careful. 

“We can’t bother our friends to fix our messes at any minor inconvenience,” Jaskier scoffs, hands wrapped tightly around himself, nails digging on the soft flesh of his biceps. 

“Please,” Geralt begs, “Please listen to yourself Jaskier! You’re being absurd. Stubborn! You’re possibly cursed- or dying! I don’t imagine our friends would like that.” 

Jaskier looks at him with wide eyes, tears threatening to spill and the tug in Geralt’s heart grows stronger. Suddenly, he curls his body, spine cracking loudly and Geralt watches as the mangled bone, hanging haphazardly below the bard’s left shoulder blade, realigns itself, muscle tissue, nerves and arteries wrapping around it. 

Fuck. 

“F-Fine,” the bard chokes out, his breathing heavy and ragged. “D-do you have a xenovox to c-contact them?” 

_ Fuck. _ He shakes his head, “Gave it to Ciri. She lost hers and Yenn didn’t have the time to make a new one. We’ll have to go by horse.”

“Fucking perfect.”

* * *

It’s hard, getting out of the bustling city unnoticed. Geralt doesn’t want to waste any time, but Jaskier reasons that it would not be wise to let any random passerby peek at the renowned bard’s literal back. That’s why they end up waiting for night to come, for the many celebrants of the bardic competition to either have returned to their homes or inns, or to be passed out drunk in the middle of the square where the big event will be held on the morrow. 

Luckily, with Geralt’s careful first-aid administering of Jaskier’s open wounds, the blood ceases to run like rivers and they can leave Oxenfurt without leaving behind a literal trail for anyone curious enough to follow. Gods know humans don’t take nicely when one amongst them suddenly starts transforming into a creature. At least, that’s what the patterns show. 

* * *

They are already nearing the Redanian borders, the sun only now making its appearance from behind the hills, when Jaskier ushers Roach to stop abruptly. 

Geralt's patch-up work while quite skilled, still feels foreign -like it shouldn’t exist- on Jaskier’s body. But that’s not what makes the bard stop on the spot. It’s not what makes him jump off the chestnut mare and flick his head to the south-east where the great forests of Vizima lie. 

“What’s wrong?” asks the witcher, his voice interlaced with worry. 

Jaskier cocks his head to the side, the deep absence of the perpetual pain he felt, since this whole transformation charade started, disorienting him. He needs to go to the south, that much is sure, yet he doesn’t know why. The pull -for it is a  _ pull _ \- grows stronger in the minute. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt calls again and the pain is back, Jaskier doubling over, arms wrapped tightly around his midriff as he heaves for a breath. 

“We need to go South, Geralt,” he finds himself admitting, voice quivering - a fragile thing- unsure of the hows and whys. 

“We need to get to Yenn and Triss in Rinde. North.” 

“I can’t,” the bard falls on his knees in the deep mud of the marshlands, for once feeling grateful he didn’t wear expensive clothes for this  _ adventure _ . His body refuses to will to him, crawling as it is in the worm-infested land. 

A small drizzle starts falling from the grey sky and Jaskier ponders if the gods feel his pain. It makes for a poetic scene after all; the cursed man compelled to crawl his way through the depressed land. 

“Can I-” the witcher sounds uncertain, his hands extended towards the bard, knees slightly folded into a half-crouch, “Can I carry you? For a while.” 

“Geralt, I love you, I really do, but whatever is happening to me wants me to turn South. If you were to carry me I reckon I’ll die from the pain. As long as I’m moving towards the  _ pull _ it… it doesn’t hurt as bad.”

“You lo-” the witcher cuts himself off, hand raised to his face, hiding his handsome visage. _ Under different circumstances, Jaskier would have thought it cute.  _ He groans once, then groans again, and speaks, “But what if I lose you, Jaskier? What then? What if you turn into a bird and fly-”

“Geralt, dear. Breathe,” Jaskier rises to his feet, wobbling left and right, dragging them through the mud, splodges of sick brown tainting his already ruined garments, towards the big unknown, “I have the feeling we’ll find answers when we get where it wants to take me," he smiles sadly, no mirth reaching his eyes.

"But what if-"

"No  _ buts  _ and no  _ ifs _ , you hear me Geralt of Rivia? I’ve been alive for six decades, Geralt. Six! And I have stopped ageing  _ completely  _ in the last three. Whatever this is, it isn’t a curse. Trust me,  _ please _ ." He stops briefly to look at his witcher and the pain flares up again, sending hot waves of wrongness throughout his body.  _ Bloody fuck.  _

_ Walk he must, then. _

The witcher seems uncertain, his golden eyes, devoid of their usual light and surety, "Fine," he breathes out after a while, "I trust you, Jask. Always."

Jaskier hums and trudges on.

* * *

The days are long and the nights are restless. They keep walking aimlessly towards the South, towards Jaskier’s  _ pull _ , towards the big vast unknown. 

There aren’t many things that scare Geralt, yet this one is capable of sending chills down his spine and night terrors of the like he hasn’t had since Blaviken. It terrifies him, what might happen when they arrive at their destination -at  _ Jaskier’s  _ destination. 

This isn’t a curse, Jaskier had said when the strange pull, this masked chaos, started. He has known, Geralt reckons, his bard has known for many years that something’s off, that he didn’t seem to age a day. And Geralt, naive as he was, had thought that it was Yenn’s or Triss’ doing, that Jaskier was asking them for tonics, for glamours, for  _ something  _ to hide the passage of time, vain as he is. But he was wrong, wasn’t he? 

He should have noticed, in the way Jaskier moved, in the way he acted. He should have noticed the  _ otherworldliness  _ about him. But Geralt was blind; blinded by Jaskier’s mirth and songs and love for life. Blinded by the man Geralt thought comparable to the Sun herself. Blinded by his love. 

It’s summer and yet the weather is moody, dark clouds overcast, heavy with rain. They can’t stop for long; never for many consecutive hours, because Jaskier’s pain rends him apart, his breathing shallows and his heart hammers so hard against his chest Geralt thinks it might give out altogether if they are careless. 

The wings -for now, it’s blatantly obvious what the appendages are- grow and stretch around the bard’s skin, tearing it open again and again as it heals too quickly- unnaturally fast. With every feather that grows from Jaskier’s body, comes a scream of anguish and pain. Comes a plea to every deity, to the Sun, the Moon, to existence itself, to stop it. The blood, too, seems to be spilling without care, and Geralt thinks if Jaskier was a normal man, he would long be dead from the way it’s leaving the poet’s body. Yet, this isn’t the case.

* * *

It’s a struggle too, avoiding civilization. Jaskier craves crowds like a witcher craves silence. It becomes apparent in the way his whole body twitches when they hear merchants approaching - _ Jaskier’s newly acute hearing is a change too, Geralt has to get used to _ \- his body slumps behind the trees, the rocks, the bushes they are hiding, his eyes clenched shut and sharp -too sharp- nails digging in the soft flesh of his palms. 

And when it’s done, when they are safe, he exhales deeply, a bittersweet melancholia wafting in the flowery summer air. He returns to his act of joviality and foolishness then, a wide smile that doesn’t reach the eyes, half-arsed ditties ready in his tongue, meant to distract himself from the constant  _ what-ifs _ that plague them both. 

It’s a warm day when this scenario occurs again. The sun is casting its merciless rays upon the yellowing hills, long cracks running through the soil due to the recent drought that befell the southern part of Temeria. 

Fortunately, the shadows grow longer as the sun makes her dive in the horizon, painting the sky with stunning purples and pinks. 

“Finally,” Jaskier breathes out, the tension he’s been holding in the stiffness of his walk, the awkward tilt of his spine, weighted by the dark feathery mass that adorns it, leaving him, “Remind me, my dear witcher, to never start transforming in mid-summer again, for it’s been hell.”

The witcher snorts, pacing the trot of Roach to follow Jaskier’s slower walk. 

“Do tell, Geralt,” Jaskier pivots on his heel and starts walking in reverse. 

“Hmm?” 

“Was the sky always so…  _ vibrant _ ? Were the stars always so bright and shiny, and gods! Breathtaking?”

Geralt tilts his head in question, “It’s always like this during summer. You couldn’t see the stars before?”

“Not when the sun was still out, no,” the poet shakes his head, dark chestnut locks shifting, revealing something pale and shining amongst them. 

“Does your head hurt?” asks Geralt, trying to catch that glistening pale  _ something _ between his bard’s hair again.

“Huh?” Jaskier pirouettes around a small rock on the ground, his gaze still fixed on the purpling sky, the sky that now reminds Geralt of Jaskier’s wings, “All the time, but you know there isn’t something in my body that doesn’t hurt. After so many days I can’t really tell anymore. I think I got used to it to a degree,” he chuckles. 

“Can you hold still for a bit?” Geralt asks, with the barest hint of surety in his voice. He doesn’t want to hurt his friend -his love- further but he has to know if he wants to find out what’s happening to Jaskier. Maybe it will be something he’ll recognise. Maybe not. “If the pain is too much, then-”

“No, no, I can do it and stand on my legs without doubling over! The closer we get to whenever these things-” he wraps a big bloody wing over his shoulder, running his long fingers through the feathery mass, “-want to take me, the less it hurts. Well, it’s either that or my pain tolerance has gone off the roof,” he huffs. 

The witcher nods, motioning to the bard to come closer. 

“What- Geralt?” Jaskier yelps when Geralt runs a hand through tangled strands caked in the blood that oozes seemingly constantly from  _ everywhere.  _ The witcher carefully parts the bard’s hair revealing two symmetrical little protrusions the colour of the moon. 

“Fuck.”

“I don’t like how this particular ‘fuck’ sounds,” Jaskier says, “What is it, Geralt?”

“I think you’re growing horns.”

“Horns, wings, it’s all the same after a while,” Jaskier jokes but he can’t mask the gnawing worry that’s making his voice crack. “Sooooooo… Do you have any guesses for me, dear? What do we know that’s horned and winged? Wyvern? Nah, too scaly. Gryphon? Doesn’t have horns. Do manticores have wings, Geralt? I don’t remember.” 

“The leathery sort.”

“Then not a manticore either, though you have to admit it would have been fun to have a snake for a tail. Imagine the possibilities. Snap! Surprise bite and you're dead!” 

Geralt huffs out a laugh at his bard’s antics, momentarily forgetting all the worries that have plagued him the last few days. 

But what is Jaskier turning into, indeed? There’s no creature described in any bestiary the witcher has read that’s humanoid, winged and horned. Horned and humanoid, sure, it’s a succubus or an incubus. Winged and humanoid, harpy or siren, sometimes vampires. But all three together? There’s nothing that comes to mind. And that terrifies him. 

There’s something else that catches the witcher's attention too, something else that makes dread fester inside his stomach and bile rise to his mouth: As Jaskier bleeds and bleeds and bleeds the blood becomes darker, loses its red shine. 

* * *

It’s almost black -l _ ike ichor, like monster _ \- when they reach the beginning, the sparse trees that lead the way to Brokilon forest. 

* * *

Brokilon. Of course, his body would lead him straight to the most mystical, the most bizarre place in the Continent. Straight to the home of the Dryads, of their secrets and ancient chaos that lives and breathes in this land. 

Jaskier idly wonders if what he is -what he is becoming, really- has to do with the protectors of the forest. Ever since Geralt recounted his encounter with the Dryads,  _ Jaskier, unfortunately, missed for whatever reason he can’t even remember _ , the poet longed to disappear in the depths of Brokilon forest, to find himself in the embrace of the fierce women that live there. 

He should have known better to ask such things. Destiny is seldom kind.

The pull, at this point, has become unbearable (though the pain has subsided), Jaskier’s blistering feet dragging themselves through the low underbrush, through rugged terrain and bulging roots ready to trip anyone foolish enough to set foot in this sacred land. 

His movements, he realises, have an underlying mania at them; it’s like whatever’s pulling him through the lush vegetation, through the tall ancient trees, has little patience left. The bard barely notices the laboured breathing of his witcher, the call of his name, as Geralt runs after him, chasing him in the forest from dusk till dawn. 

He’s so close, he can feel it. So close to the end of this- this-

A perfectly circular crystalline pond, reflecting the slowly disappearing full moon, surrounded by tall ashen trees that sway in the early morning air, makes the bard stop at his tracks. There’s the thrum of something ancient, something strange, in the air, the water and even in the ground. And it feels right. 

It feels like… home, in a way. Like he was always meant to come here. 

He turns around, the rusting of leaves startling him awake from the haze he felt watching the little clearing. 

“Jaskier,” the silver-haired witcher pants, out of breath, and he looks ethereal too between the silver trees and clear body of water. 

Jaskier smiles at him, bright and warmly, “It’s here,” he says, “Can you feel it, Geralt?” 

“Jaskier,” the witcher breathes out again, clutching his medallion like a lifeline, “There’s so much chaos. Everywhere. Be careful.” 

“It feels right,” says the bard, seating himself in one of the rocks that frame the pond, stretching his wings all the way, brushing the witcher’s side and the silver barks of the trees. His gaze falls on his reflection upon the clear water and he shivers at the sight, at the ridiculous amount of dirt and blood that adorns him. 

He could go for a dip, in and out of the water and no one would notice. His instincts scream at him that it’s a perfectly safe thing to do, that the pond will welcome him like a loving parent welcomes their child when they return from school. 

The bard removes his boots eagerly and sets them aside, slides his feet in the water and a wave of warmth rushes throughout his body, feeling _ so perfectly right.  _ The pull he hasn’t felt since he stepped into the clearing appears again, stronger than before and before he knows it, Jaskier submerges himself completely, drowning the sounds of Geralt’s voice calling to him. 

He closes his eyes and feels content,  _ whole _ , for the first time in forever. 

* * *

Geralt watches, unable to move, as Jaskier jumps into the pool -the pool that stinks of chaos and  _ wrongwrongwrong _ \- his heart hammering against his chest, fear and adrenaline pumping in his veins. He screams the bard’s name, he begs him to come out, to leave and go far far away from this place, from this cursed land. He screams and begs again and again but his body won’t move and - fuck - why won’t it move? He has to- Has to-

As the last of Jaskier’s deep purple wings disappear beneath the water the air stills and the chaos whirls around the little clearing pushing all life away from it. 

Geralt wills his body to take a step forward, tries to make himself pass the silvery tree line, to approach the pond, to get his bard back. He moves, he knows he does, and yet he remains at the same place, the scenery wrapping around him in an endless corridor of sorts. He walks and he walks, hours on end but he’s still in the same place, never getting closer to the clearing and the pool. 

The witcher tries every trick in the book, recalls every passage he’s ever read describing barriers and spatial magic but it’s all for nought. No matter what he does the clearing won’t let him approach it. And Jaskier - gods Jaskier- seems to have vanished. 

Geralt waits and watches patiently and hours turn to days, then into weeks and eventually into months, but Jaskier never resurfaces, never returns by Geralt’s side. 

And it hurts. Gods, it hurts so much. 

Still, Geralt waits. Builds a shelter near the treeline, hunts for food further into the forest, and waits. 

* * *

_ You can never get him back. _

_ Jaskier is no more. _

_ Leave, witcher, leave.  _

_ There’s nothing left for you here.  _

_ Leave, witcher, leave. _

_ Your buttercup has wilted, has gone. _

* * *

The pale Moon sheds Her ivory light upon the realm and Sunflower basks under it, stretches his wings feeling Her warmth, Her power. He sits on the marble balustrade of the spacious balcony of his tall tree tower, his legs dangling playfully above the deadly drop of this height. 

Strumming softly at the chords of his lute, he hums a half-finished song about Her beauty, about Her kindness, his gaze never leaving the Moon’s pale body. 

Oh, how stunning She is. He wouldn’t change it for the world; the peacefulness, the beauty and the company. 

Sure, he might look different from his siblings, taller and darker and scarier, but they assure him daily that he belongs here, their kindness without comparison as they bring him whatever he desires. 

However, he gets this gnawing feeling as he lays his gaze upon the full Moon, that there’s something missing; some piece of crucial information. It’s almost like his heart is hollow, a husk of what it could have been. 

A thread of white and silver, much like the celestial goddess yet not the same, always somewhat different, lingers in Sunflower’s mind, and a deep melancholy settles in his stomach. 

With song and lute, he tries to smoothen the ripples in his mind, to go back to the euphoria this realm provides. But when he channels his feelings, this ache grows and grows until it’s large enough to swallow his soul, to rend him apart, his voice breaks and tears pearl, like tiny crystals, on his eyelashes. When he sings of silver and white, when he gazes upon the pale Moon, his siblings turn sour and angry, their sunshine dims and darkens. 

_ The songs he learns to keep to himself.  _

He chooses other outlets for his pain, his hollow heart. Whenever he finds himself wallowing in heart-wrenching agony he sneaks his way into the vast library of Lunaris.

It’s said there’s knowledge about everything and everyone amidst the milliard shimmery scrolls.

_ Maybe there’s something that explains this emptiness in his chest. _

* * *

Geralt doesn’t know how much time has passed since Jaskier disappeared into the crystal pool, since the last time he gazed deep into those cornflower blue eyes since his heart beat for a reason other than survival. 

Seasons come and seasons go and the clearing remains untouchable. 

The witcher doesn’t stay idle during this time, he doesn’t stay watching the spot that swallowed Jaskier whole, feeling sorry for himself. Instead, he ventures deep into Brokilon forest, far into its core, where the canopy of the ancient trees covers the blue of the sky, where the rays of the sun won’t reach the verdant land. 

Geralt seeks out the dryads and their ancient wisdom, he enlists their help, brings them to his hut that has a full view of the clearing. 

“We can’t help you, witcher,” the matriarch says, her eyes sad and compassionate, her body language stiff, reeking of terror. “This part of Brokilon no-one can touch. Not us. Not animals. No-one. It has been like that since the beginning of time. Since the first of us was born by Mother Forest.”

A lump in Geralt’s throat restricts his vocal cords, the many words bubbling inside, the many questions wanting to get out out out. But he can’t speak so he simply nods his thanks and drags his feet to the stump overlooking the clearing. 

It’s always the same; day in and day out, the pond remains as still as ever, even when a storm is brewing and the leaves are rustling and dancing in the autumn-winter-spring-summer air. Jaskier never appears from within the clear waters, his laugh never echoes in the forest. 

And Geralt- 

-Geralt doesn't know what to do. This hole in his heart, caused by the absence of the sunshine of his life, Jaskier, grows bigger and bigger until he feels like it'll consume him whole.

Still, he persists, he waits. One day at a time. 

There's something else that fuels his restless vigil. Something he dares not utter aloud in fear it turns out to be all in his mind. Voices echo throughout the untouchable clearing, taunting the witcher, telling him all sort of things to drive him away -- do drive him mad. 

At first, they only sounded once in a few weeks. At first, they only sounded exasperated by his insistence on staying there, by the silvery line of trees. “Still here?” they would ask and sigh deeply, chaos wrong and ancient and other wafting through the air. “Give up witcher. Give up.” 

The longer Geralt waited, patiently, for Jaskier to emerge from the pond, to come back to him, to tell him that it was all a big joke, the more mocking the voices became. 

“He’s never coming back.”

“The one you knew as Jaskier is no more.”

“His soul belongs to us now to consume.”

“Leave, witcher, leave.”

“Leave, or we’ll make you leave.”

The more Geralt heard the taunts, the more they plague his every waking hour, echoing and swirling deep in his mind, the more convinced he becomes that he shouldn’t give up. That whoever has his bard, his friend, his love, will show themselves. And then he’ll be ready. Then he’ll make them bring him back;  _ dead or alive.  _

* * *

Sunflower runs his long clawed fingers on the book spines and the scrolls that gather dust in the vast library of Lunaris. It’s dark, his siblings fast asleep in their homes, and he should be too, but he finds the quiet of the night, the shimmer of the stars and the pale light of the Moon invigorating. 

His name is Sunflower and yet the Sun offers him nothing. No warmth, no energy, no _ life _ . 

Often, he finds himself watching his siblings from a distance, covered in the deep shade his tree provides, basking in the sun, stretching their pale iridescent wings, laughing and singing. Something ugly and vile festers in his stomach, it twists and turns and makes him want to spread his wings and cover that blasted sun. He’s jealous he realises. He doesn’t fit in with them and he never will, no matter how much they try to convince him he does. 

Sunflower is different,  _ other _ , compared to his siblings --  _ if they are siblings at all.  _ Where they are light and beauty and grace, comparable to the Sun goddess Herself, he’s darkness, monstrous and big. Yet everyone seems to be pointedly ignoring that fact. __

A deep sigh escapes his lips and he blinks away the tears that pool in his eyes. 

_ Right.  _

He didn’t come to the library to mope, he came to forget the nasty thoughts that worm their way into his mind. The books and manuscripts are supposed to help him figure out all these feelings, all this wrongness that inexplicably surrounds him. 

He’s been here, amidst the towering bookshelves of the labyrinth library every night for what seems an eternity. He’s read most of the books and manuscripts that gather dust within this vast moonlit hall, from poems to novels, from botanic research to the history of their kind, of the benevolent Sun Fae Court. He’s read so much and yet there’s nothing that explains  _ him.  _

Maybe if he goes further inside, maybe he’s missed a corridor that holds the knowledge Sunflower longs for. 

He flaps his dark feathery wings as silently as he can muster and reaches the top of the shelves that form a maze. Perhaps he’ll be able to discern something from up above. 

How could he have been so damn blind?

All this time walking around the library, searching right and left, reading all sorts of nonsense in hope that he would find something,  _ anything _ . All this time lost when he should have flown above the massive bookshelves, close to the night sky painted on the ceiling. He can hardly believe what he’s seeing; the maze of bookshelves form the outline of a massive being, two huge feathered wings spanning from side to side of the hall, a set of horns much like Sunflower’s adorning its head. And there, where its heart would be is a closed circle, made of bookcases, that doesn’t look empty at all. 

There’s some sort of shimmer around it, some kind of ancient power wafting through the air that Sunflower recognises as a cloaking spell. It’s odd that he can see right through it. Surely, some of his siblings would have noticed such a spell in their realm. Surely… Yet, there’s this small part of him that is strangely convinced that no-one except for him has noticed it. 

It makes absolutely no sense. And yet…

Perhaps he ought to try to fly closer, to inspect it. Perhaps he should tell of his finding to one of the elder Fae that resides in the realm. Or perhaps he shouldn’t. 

Whoever put the cloaking spell in place, whoever designed the whole damn place to look like Sunflower --not like his siblings, but like  _ him _ \-- wouldn’t want them to come near it, to see what’s inside the circle of shelves. 

_ But he’s not his siblings, is he? _

His strong wings stretch and flutter as he takes flight once more, his eyes scanning the twisting hallways beneath him for any sign of life. It’s the dead of night and it’s improbable someone would be  _ here reading, _ but one can never be too careful. 

Sunflower stops right at the edge of the cloaking spell, and traces a hand over the shimmery starry veil. It pulses and vibrates and feels impossibly warm and welcoming beneath his palm. It almost feels like… home. 

A flash of silvery trees, of a pale moon dipping beneath them and of crystal clear waters enters his mind. A sound of a gravelly, low hum echoes, and it makes him feel warm, elated… loved even. 

He takes a step forward passing the veil, and the assault of pictures and sounds grows louder and more vivid and real. Bustling cities and vast forests, the crackling campfire and that goddamn low hum that sends shivers down his spine, that he wants to reach a hand and keep it close, close, close, it feels so familiar so  _ right.  _

_ Jaskier.  _

His name is Jaskier. Buttercup. 

_ Jaskier,  _ the gravelly voice calls, again and again, with an urgency, a  _ pull,  _ that he hasn’t felt since before-

-before they stole his name, his memories, his life. 

He never was Sunflower, the name a mockery of his old life. He’s Jaskier, a bard, a poet, who lived among humans for sixty long years. Who travelled with his best friend, the man he loves more in the world for forty of them. 

_ Geralt.  _

Gods, he needs to go back to his witcher. He needs to leave this dreadful place and its vile magic as quickly as possible.  __

Jaskier steps over the top of the bookcase and glides until his clawed feet reach the centre of the circle. 

He has a feeling that all his questions will be answered soon. 

* * *

_ Still here, witcher? Aren’t you tired? You are. Why do you persist, when we are telling you he’s never coming back? When we assure you that Jaskier is no more?  _

_ Leave, witcher, leave. There are more important things out there for you than a single broken man.  _

_ Leave, witcher, leave. _

* * *

The more time passes, the more Geralt waits by the silvery fence of trees, the louder the voices grow. They are angry, furious towards the beginning of yet another cold winter in Brokilon forest. It’s abundantly clear that they don’t want him there, that his presence by their territory is a threat. 

Geralt is now convinced that they know what happened to his bard, that they have him, hold him there beneath the dead still waters of the pond. The pond, the witcher has no means of reaching. 

It’s snowing, the soft snowflakes descending slowly from the white sky, the cold seeping inside the witcher's weary bones. Old wounds tug and hurt unpleasantly, his ears and nose burning from the frigid winter air. Geralt sits by the struggling fire, cloak wrapped tightly around himself and the voices assault him once again, spatting at him aggressively to leave, calling him every sort of imaginative profanities. 

It’s almost comforting at this point. 

Geralt huffs a steam of hot breath and smiles to himself when the voice reiterates for the hundredth time since morning that he’s not welcome there. It’s become easier and easier to tune out the relentless assault of hate.  _ It never becomes easier when Jaskier is mentioned, when the voices assure him that they feast on his soul like he’s a goddamn gourmet dish.  _

The telltale scent of chaos, of magic unlike the one that comes from the untouched clearing he can’t reach, fill the crisp snowy air, and the witcher more alert than he has been in months, snaps his head towards it, his hand hovering above the hilt of his silver sword. 

A portal opens next to his little cabin, and Geralt releases a deep breath when he recognises the form that steps out of it. 

“Dad,” Ciri calls, her voice heavy, filled with worry, her eyebrows knit together, “Goodness, dad,” she repeats and jogs to him, wrapping him in her strong arms in a tight embrace. 

“Ciri,” he croaks, his voice rough from unuse, “What are you doing here, little swallow?” 

“We searched for you for so long, mum, Triss and I. When you didn’t show last winter in Kaer Morhen, I got worried. And when- when no one had seen you for over a year,  _ anywhere  _ in the Continent, we started searching. All of us. What happened, dad? Why are you here?” 

“I lost him,” he responds, his eyes fixed on that fucking bard-snatching pool. He swallows the knot that constricts his throat. 

“Jaskier?” Ciri asks, her voice gentle, calm, and Geralt can only nod in response, the words too heavy too painful to get out. 

They sit in silence, by the crackling fire, the snow falling, passing through the sparse canopy of the forest. Geralt's gaze never leaves the clearing, I hope… He doesn’t know if he has any hope left, to be honest. It’s been so long since that damn summer dawn he lost his heart for good. 

“He’s in there,” he admits after a while, pointing at the crystalline pool, “he jumped in and disappeared.” 

“That- How?” Ciri startles and rises to her feet. She walks towards the silvery line of trees, the endless corridor appearing once more. It’s strange watching someone else trapped in that spatial magic; she looks as she’s walking in the same spot. 

“There’s no use, Ciri. The forest won’t allow anyone near there. Not even the dryads could do anything about it.”

“We’ll find a way,” Ciri says, “There’s no chaos, no spell, mum and I can’t topple. You know that.”

* * *

_ You may know my name but you can’t have it.  _

_ I revoke the invitation for the ownership of my true name, for it may belong to me and me alone, till the earth stills, till life’s no more.  _

_ You may know my name but you can’t have it. _

* * *

They used him! They fucking used him as a glorified live-in power supply! 

He never belonged here with them, he never fit in and he never would because in their eyes all he was, all he is, is a means to save this dying realm. And for what? To have the luxury to call it their conquered land, their vacation resort where they come to gloat about ridding the world of his brethren. They never were his siblings, the grand court of the Sun Fae. 

All they were, all they are, is conquerors, criminals. What they did is unforgivable. 

_ Goddess, Jaskier is the only one left, isn’t he? _

The last fae of the Moon court. 

Chaos runs like rivers in his blood, it crackles threateningly on his fingertips, freezing the scroll he is holding in his hands. The scroll one of his ancestors, one of his true family, left for a survivor to find moments before the Sun-bastards marched in their realm, weapons drawn. Moments before the Moon Fae perished, outnumbered as they were. 

Fury boils inside Jaskier’s blood, he wants to scream, he wants to curse. He wants to bury this place in the ice that runs in his veins. 

But what is one man against a hundred? 

* * *

The last straw is drawn the dawn of the next day. 

Jaskier didn’t sleep at all since he ventured into the secret part of the library, and learned the truth about his heritage, about the history of his kind with the Sun Fae. A small part of him contemplated searching for an escape, a hollow in the veil that separates the fae realm from the Continent. But a bigger part of him is so angry at what was done, at how he was used like a puppet all this time (and really, how much time did, in fact, pass?  _ He dreads attempting to think about it _ ). 

He’s cleaning his face with clear water, in the stream that passes through the ancient massive trees, when they come for him.

“Oh, look at our little ugly bird,” a voice he places as Elarya, says mockingly, “Trying to fix that monstrous mug of his.”

“I know, right?” Yot says, “What should we have him do for us today? I’m partial at having him play that lute of his till the sun goes down.” 

“That’s not fun enough, though,” Elarya pouts, and something twists inside Jaskier’s stomach, “Jaskier,” she calls, and Jaskier feels the tug of magic, the intent to use his name to control him. Pity, she can’t though. Not anymore. “Pluck your feathers and make capes for us,” she commands.

“Oh, you’re evil, darling,” Yot says, and a bunch of other Sun Fae, stop what they’re doing, amused half-smiles adorning their bright faces. There’s no doubt left in the Moon Fae’s mind that they abused their power over him, replacing their memories with song and laughter, for a long time, used as they seem to this display. 

He snaps his head at them and snarls, pointy teeth showing beneath his parted lips. Chaos crackles at his fingertips, and an animalistic growl escapes his throat as the world around him gets painted in hues of blue and white. Pillars of ice engulf the ancient forest and with it every living thing that resided in it. 

The Sun fae don’t even get a chance to shriek in terror. 

It’s terribly cold, and yet that’s the warmest Jaskier has felt in ages.

* * *

Ciri’s magic is ancient, powerful, much like the one that oozes from the still unchanging clearing. Geralt shouldn’t be surprised when his daughter assures him she can open a dimensional portal by the pond. He really shouldn’t be surprised, after all, they fought side by side the Aen Elle invaders. After all, he saw with his very own eyes worlds that shouldn’t be possible. 

And yet, he was convinced for -gods- two years now that the best course of action was to wait by himself in a shed in Brokilon. To stay and wait endlessly in case Jaskier appeared within the crystalline waters of the pond. 

He was scared, in a way, to leave his post, his restless vigil to ask for help. He thought that if he left for a prolonged span of time that he’d miss Jaskier’s return, that his bard would think Geralt had abandoned him.  _ He thought he’d lose Jaskier for good.  _

None of this makes sense, given perspective. And now that Ciri is here, now that the witcher laid his heart bare for his daughter to see, now he understands what a fool he’s been.

“Are you ready, dad?” Ciri asks, and he nods. A portal opens, silver and blue mixing together in a vortex, and Geralt takes a deep breath, readies his silver sword and passes through. Ciri joins him shortly, and within seconds they are inside the silvery circle made of trees. 

Geralt’s stomach hurls as it always does when he goes through a portal, but he steadies himself, breathing in the chaos tinted air deeply. 

There are no voices mocking him now, no voices spitting at him enraged. 

_ Strange _ , he thinks, reminiscing every time he attempted to run to the pond, every time he got trapped in that endless corridor, where the voices echoed deafeningly, taunted and laughed at him. 

“That’s definitely a portal,” Ciri hums, leaning above the still waters of the circular pond. “After you?” she gestures and smiles, the scar beneath her right eye morphing. 

“Is it safe?” Geralt asks. 

“As safe as any portal, really.” 

“Right, then,” the witcher takes a deep breath and jumps into the water. 

The colours mix and intermingle in a vortex quite similar to Ciri’s portal, the swirling motions making Geralt’s already upset stomach suffer. After what seems to be an eternity later (he’s exaggerating but he does loathe travel by portal that much) his feet touch soft grass and he lets out a relieved sigh. 

The first thing Geralt feels is the frigid cold gust of wind hitting his face pleasantly. The second thing he sees when he raises his gaze from the worn leather of his boots is ice. Whenever he looks, pillars of ice rise from the ground, afterimages of massive trees enveloped within cold prisons. A feathered being, tall and monstrous, stands in the middle of the scene, hands raised to the sky and the chaos- gods- the chaos roams wild from its hands wrapping everything in the deadly cold. 

_ Jaskier. Gods, it’s him! _

The sound of a sword getting drawn startles the witcher, fear and dread festering like a bad old friend in his stomach, and he pivots on his heel facing a (rightly) terrified Ciri ready for battle.

“Ciri, no!” he yells, jumping between her and Jaskier. 

“D-dad, what –” Ciri stops dead still eyes going wide as plates, looking somewhere behind Geralt. 

Before the witcher has a chance to explain, before he can utter a sound, a big clawed hand rests on his shoulder. The witcher shivers at the touch and leans in, breathing in the comforting scent of his bard, his love. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice says, “you’re here.” How are you here, goes unsaid. “Ciri too,” a melodic chuckle, “I won’t hurt you little bird, I swear.” 

Ciri’s expression morphs from alert to confusion, to the soft understanding smile of realisation. 

“Uncle Jas, you went through a second puberty, I see?” she jokes and Jaskier snorts a laugh. 

“You know how it is; you hit sixty and you sprout some wings and horns.”

“And claws, and Melitele, are those tusks, uncle Jas?” 

Geralt turns to face his bard, expecting to meet his eyes but meeting the soft fabric of his pale blue chemise instead. “I…” he trails off, “Let’s go back to the Continent?” he didn’t mean it to come out as a question but… “If you want, of course.”

“If I want… Geralt are you listening to yourself? I didn’t freeze this goddamn place to the ground because I wanted to stay!” Jaskier huffs. He gestures to move from where they came, “Ciri dear, think you can portal us back to Brokilon? Quickly, before the ice thaws and they come after us.” 

Geralt doesn’t think that anything could survive this cold but he doesn’t mention it. It’s obvious to him that Jaskier had a very bad time in this realm, evident of the urgency and panic in his voice, of the way he looks back nervously to the massive pillars of ice. 

“You can’t see the portal,” Ciri says, not a question but a statement. Behind them, the portal still swirls dizzyingly, ever-present and unchanging. “Well, you’re in luck you’re at the good side of the lady of space and time,” she smirks and opens a gateway through the realms beneath their feet.

* * *

The campfire crackles and dances in the soft evening breeze. Jaskier and Geralt are sitting side by side in silence, not sure how to broach the elephant in the room. 

Jaskier is still alert, his gaze flicking to the now collapsed clearing of horror – as he calls it in his mind. It wasn’t hard wrecking the place for good once he’d stepped out of the fae realm. His magic is evidently tied with this land, the connection between them strong. 

He knows the portal was severed, that without him to fuel the goddamn trap realm the Sun Fae lorded over there’s no chance they'll be able to come after him. At best they froze for good and at worst their gateway to the Continent was severed. Yet he’s still anxious, still terrified they may somehow reach him, whisk him away again to be their puppet. 

A deep sigh escapes his lips and he rocks back, gazing to the darkening evening sky. 

“It’s alright,” Geralt says, his gravelly voice impossibly soft, “We’re alright.” 

“I know,” Jaskier groans, running a hand through his longer-than-usual hair, “I’ll manage to convince myself we’re safe from them for good. Just need time, ‘s all.”

Geralt hums and doesn’t say anything for a while. It’s stupid, completely irrational this fear inside Jaskier’s mind, that somehow his friend, the man he loves more than anything in the world, won’t accept him as he is now. That he looks at him and sees a monster.

It makes no sense, whatsoever. 

Geralt takes a deeps breath, “I thought I lost you, you know. I waited for so long here,” there’s so much heart-ache woven into his voice, so much hurt, but also relief. 

“How long?” Jaskier blurts out and he wants to smack himself across the face when he sees tears pearling in Geralt's eyelashes, glistening in the low light. 

“Two and a half years, give or take. Don’t misunderstand, I would have waited for aeons for you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier meets his witcher’s golden gaze and is astounded by the sincerity that’s painted on his features. The low light of the fire makes Geralt’s cheeks appear tinted in pink. But that can’t be- 

“Jaskier, I need to get something off my chest,” Geralt says, his voice resolute. _Oh, no, here comes the rejection._ “I’m in love with you. Have been for years-”

Oh.

_ Oh. _

The bard closes the distance between them, and pulls the witcher closer, till they’re a breath away. “Mind if I kiss you?” he breathes out, relishing the look on Geralt’s face. 

“What are you waiting for?” Geralt hums and Jaskier tastes those sweet lips after so many years of pining.

**Author's Note:**

> Well that was a ride and a half, wasn't it? 
> 
> I'd like to thank Bamf_babe for making this amazing artwork that made this whole thing happen <3 
> 
> I've been writing this fic for over a month and I believe it has the best descriptions I've ever managed. And if you know me, I'm all about dialogue, not descriptions usually. But dammit did I try hard. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this read and if you did I'd love to hear your thoughts <3


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